My step exulting, and my joy avow’d,
    Death now hath quench’d with ye, my heart’s twin store;
    Nor earth’s high rule, nor gems, nor gold’s bright ore,
    Can e’er bring back what once my heart endow’d
    But if this grief my destiny hath will’d,
    What else can I oppose but tearful eyes,
    A sorrowing bosom, and a spirit quell’d? 
    O life! whose vista seems so brightly fill’d,
    A sunny breath, and that exhaling, dies
    The hope, oft, many watchful years have swell’d.

    WOLLASTON.

CANZONE II.

Amor, se vuoi ch’ i’ torni al giogo antico.

UNLESS LOVE CAN RESTORE HER TO LIFE, HE WILL NEVER AGAIN BE HIS SLAVE.

      If thou wouldst have me, Love, thy slave again,
    One other proof, miraculous and new,
    Must yet be wrought by you,
    Ere, conquer’d, I resume my ancient chain—­
    Lift my dear love from earth which hides her now,
    For whose sad loss thus beggar’d I remain;
    Once more with warmth endow
    That wise chaste heart where wont my life to dwell;
    And if as some divine, thy influence so,
    From highest heaven unto the depths of hell,
    Prevail in sooth—­for what its scope below,
    ’Mid us of common race,
    Methinks each gentle breast may answer well—­
    Rob Death of his late triumph, and replace
    Thy conquering ensign in her lovely face!

    Relume on that fair brow the living light,
    Which was my honour’d guide, and the sweet flame. 
    Though spent, which still the same
    Kindles me now as when it burn’d most bright;
    For thirsty hind with such desire did ne’er
    Long for green pastures or the crystal brook,
    As I for the dear look,
    Whence I have borne so much, and—­if aright
    I read myself and passion—­more must bear: 
    This makes me to one theme my thoughts thus bind,
    An aimless wanderer where is pathway none,
    With weak and wearied mind
    Pursuing hopes which never can be won. 
    Hence to thy summons answer I disdain,
    Thine is no power beyond thy proper reign.

    Give me again that gentle voice to hear,
    As in my heart are heard its echoes still,
    Which had in song the skill
    Hate to disarm, rage soften, sorrow cheer,
    To tranquillize each tempest of the mind,
    And from dark lowering clouds to keep it clear;
    Which sweetly then refined
    And raised my verse where now it may not soar. 
    And, with desire that hope may equal vie,
    Since now my mind is waked in strength, restore
    Their proper business to my ear and eye,
    Awanting which life must
    All tasteless be and harder than to die. 
    Vainly with me to your old power you trust,
    While my first love is shrouded still in dust.